You know me
by deafobiwan
Summary: Nineteen days have passed since the helicarriers crashed. Cap' has been searching for his lost friend, Bucky Barnes. He aims to help him heal, help him come back from all of this. But will it be so simple? Can you just come back from something like this? All Steve wants is to have things as they were before. All Bucky wants is to remember who he was before. Steve/Bucky M/M Rated:M
1. Day Nineteen

_**You know me.**_  
_**Chapter One, Nineteen Days.**_

* * *

It had been nineteen days since the incident.  
It had been nineteen days since pieces of the helicarriers rained down over the Potomac River.  
It had been nineteen days since Steve Rogers had seen _him._  
And that was all he could think about.

Everyone had told him that this self-assigned mission was a lost cause, and it was hard to blame them for their doubts. He was a ghost story; impossible for anyone to find him unless he wanted to be found. And there was no real proof he had ever made it off the helicarrier that day. But someone had pulled Steve Rogers out of the Potomac; someone had saved his life that day. And he knew it was him.

He had seen the look in his eyes before he fell into the river; he knew that Buck had remembered something.  
And Steve knew he could help him. He could bring him back from this.

And he had been searching, every single day, praying for a lead, for something, for anything, praying to find him again. But there was nothing to be found, not a trace of him anywhere in the city. And Steve had more than once fought back the idea that maybe he was gone. Maybe he was too far gone by now to ever come back from this. Maybe he was across the world from him, where he would never be able to reach him. Of course, he pushed those thoughts away, Cap' would never give up that easily, Steve would never give up that easily, this was Bucky.

To the end of the line, right?

Steve tried to make himself as public as he could. Staying out and in the open and keeping to a steady routine. He took his morning runs a little later into the bright morning light than he usually did. Blaming it on 'getting a late start,' what he really wanted was to be seen. He found himself wearing more and more of his old clothes; like his faded green shirt that had 'ARMY' stamped across the front and back. And he made very sure that every single day he walked the most uncomplicated and exposed route back to his apartment. While of course he was still scouring every source he could to try and track down a sighting- the disbanding of S.H.E.I.L.D. was putting a sharp hindrance on the available technology- Steve knew that if Bucky was still here, he would find him. And maybe that was the only way. It was hopeless looking for a ghost. Maybe though, Steve prayed, Buck would come searching for him.

Day nineteen had been no different than day eighteen, or day seventeen before that. It was late, almost eleven when Steve finally left the little 24 hour dining car he'd had his dinner in. Steve had made his life into a pattern now, making himself as easy to track and as openly visible as he could. Every night he went to that quiet diner, Mel's it was called, and he sat in the same booth right in front of the large picture window. He would eat his food and read the newspaper, several newspapers if he had too, anything he could do to keep himself occupied and keep himself in front of that large picture window.

But he was tired for a change. And he made his way home down the sidewalk in the same fashion he always did. Taking open streets, with minimal foot traffic and brightly lit sidewalks. Sending a few texts back and forth to Natasha as he walked, she was in Vancouver for now, laying low for a little while. She planned to return to D.C. in another week or so. And he would be glad to have his friend back around, he could use the support and the backup.

Steve rounded the last corner on his route home, looking both directions just to be safe before crossing the two lane street. His building was just a block down on the left, and the pace of his steps slowed down significantly, even though it was an unconscious habit. No sign of Buck again that day, it was a constant let down day after day, and he knew the more days passed the colder his trail grew. Steve gave a half laugh, and shook his head a little, his eyes turned down to the pavement under his feet. What trail? Ghosts didn't leave trails.

He flipped on the lights once he was inside his apartment. Closing and locking the door behind him. Cap' knew that locking the door would do nothing against keeping him away if were to make up his mind to pay him a visit. The Winter Solider was not deterred by a simple locked door. But still Steve thought of putting a key outside the door under a brick, Bucky would know to look there.

Steve shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on the rack near the door and sat down in the chair just beside it to take off his boots. Then he made his way across the living room towards the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to get out a bottle of water. His apartment was modest, for someone like him who surely could be afforded better. The colors were warm, but neutral, and the decoration was much the same. Steve had never really been one for excess, nor one for interior design. Closing the fridge he broke the seal on the bottle with a simple twist of the cap and took a slow sip. Sitting it down on the island counter he looked over the living room. It felt empty, and alien. The two windows were dark now, the blinds were still pulled up to let in the sunlight which had faded away hours ago. But Steve wasn't going to close them.

Lost in his own thoughts he stood there for some time, looking out into the darkness beyond the living room windows. Nothing visible, just blackness, but he knew well what was out there. An open two lane street, and then across it another apartment building, a little taller than the one he resided in now. With a slow sigh he took the bottle and headed back towards bedroom, figuring he would lay down and maybe watch a movie that he had been needing to strike off his list.

He set the bottle down now on the night stand beside his bed, plugging in his cell phone to its charger- that had been a gift from Natasha, an attempt at modernizing him. He turned on the light that sat on the small table, having seen his way into the clean and spacious bedroom with only the light that echoed down the hallway from his living room. Steve pulled the old Army shirt off over his head and tossed it easily into the hamper near the door. Doing the same for the slacks he had worn that day. Steve stood there for a minute, his hand rubbing over the back of his neck, deciding it would be best to get a shower before heading to bed.

About fifteen minutes later the water shut off, and the noise from the bathroom stopped. When Steve emerged he was wearing only a towel around his waist as he padded down the short hallway to the bedroom once more. This time Steve went to the dresser opening the top drawer to get out some clean boxer shorts and then the drawer below that for some cotton pajama bottoms and a white under shirt. Once he was dressed he went back to the living room, meaning to turn off the lights, and he double checked that the door was locked.

It was locked, of course, and he flicked the switch down to turn off the lights in the living room. The only light now was what dim radiance was coming from his bedroom doorway. Crossing the room again, one hand brushed his wet hair back tiredly, he could never remember feeling so exhausted. Steve caught a glimpse of something bright and reflective through the dark living room windows. His heart jumped in his chest and he stopped, turning to face the window fully, staring at the bright metallic silver shape on the roof top across the street. With the lights off in the room the view out of the darkened windows was much clearer now. It was him, _he was here_. For that short moment, Steve was at a loss for words, and thoughts, and actions. He was frozen, a mix of anxious fear and hope swelling inside him. Was that Bucky, or was this the Winter Solider?

Finally finding his legs, and his rational mind, Steve moved closer to the window; his lips parted as he took in a steady breath. The disappointment rising in now him was exponential and crushing. He could feel the ache in his chest and instantly his head hurt. What was he thinking? Of course it wasn't him. It was a silver telescope, angled upwards towards the stars. On moonless nights like this the stargazing was always better right? Someone must have gotten it for their son or daughter. God, how he had wanted it to be him. With a short shaky breath Steve left the window and went back to his bedroom. Laying himself down to rest on the too-soft mattress, and turning on the TV that sat atop the dresser opposite the bed. 

* * *

_'Look down punk, look down.'_

But the target hadn't looked down. His eyes had stayed focused on something up high, or in the distance, it was impossible to be sure of which. But one thing was for sure, he had missed the figure wearing a dark blue sweatshirt and a baseball cap, standing on the sidewalk across the street. Blue eyes turned up to watch him at the window in the darkness.

_'Look down,' _

Again that voice spoke that had risen up inside him when he saw Steve Rogers on the bridge.  
Again that voice spoke that had sounded so much like his own.  
Again that voice spoke that was driving him mad.  
And that was all he could think about.

He had been to the Smithsonian; he had seen the memorial exhibit. He stood there for some time, looking at a man who wore his face, standing beside Steve Rogers, laughing as he spoke in an old and grainy black and white film. It both captivated him, and shook him to the core. The Winter Soldier was frozen with eyes locked on James Buchanan Barnes, a man who wore his face. His face. His face was etched in glass beside that name, a listing of achievements and honors playing over a speaker above. It was then he recognized the voice in his head. The voice that told him he _knew_ the man on the bridge. That voice was _him._

Watching as the target moved away from the window and vanished into the darkness beyond his line of sight, anger seared in his chest. His chest that rose and feel sharply with his heavy breath.

_'Why don't you see me? Why didn't you see me?'_  
_'You didn't look down.'_

The target had made himself so vulnerable, so easy to find. He knew this was what he wanted, he wanted to be hunted; he wanted to be found, right? But he didn't understand why he hadn't even looked. He was giving him what he was searching for, chance after chance to find him, to see him. But he didn't see him, he never saw him. Why would the target make himself so obvious, so accessible, and then; he didn't even see. Isn't this what he wanted?

_'Why didn't you look for me?'_

The Winter Soldier was crumbling. Strange images, sounds, and emotions were coming to him of their own accord. Flooding him. He didn't know what they were, or why they filled his head. But they were broken and shattered; and they fell on him, burying him in shards of broken bloody glass. One now taking hold over him- he was falling from a train, falling, and reaching. Though he knew he would never reach him, the target, still he tried, he had to try. These glass shards, some large, and some small, were very sharp- they cut everything he knew, everything he had been forced to know; they tore him apart slowly and viciously, and yet he could not fight against them.

He was unstable and trembling almost violently with a mix of anger and hurt and a thousand other emotions he could not even begin to recognize or process. He didn't ask for this, he never asked for this. And all he knew to do was to be angry. It was all he had been allowed to know, been programmed to know. And so he was, angry, and shattered. Though he did not know at who or what his rage swelled.

'He's my mission.'  
_'But I knew him.'  
'I knew him.'_

* * *

Steve had been asleep now for a little over an hour; the TV was still on playing re-runs of I Love Lucy. The volume was almost down to mute, he had very acute hearing and besides, he was trying to sleep- no need for it to be on any louder. But the white noise of it did help him rest, he found silence hard to handle these days. Steve's chest rose and fell evenly and slowly under his white cotton shirt. A true image of peace lit only by the eerie bluish light of the flat screen.

But a quiet thump echoing up the hall from the living room was enough to wake him. His breath catching and his chest froze just where it was mid-rise. Steve didn't move otherwise, putting all his focus into listening. There was no further noise in the apartment what so ever. But Steve was not a fool- he lay still and silent. His chest rising and falling now a little quicker than it had been before; still he kept himself even, and calm. _He was here_. He had made his presence known. Cap' knew that the Winter Soldier was never heard unless he wanted to be, that the noise that had woken him was made with full purpose. He also knew that if he was here to kill him, he never would have woken up to start with.

Slowly Steve opened his eyes, and sat up, letting the blanket rustle as he got up off of the bed. He was making sure that his actions were clear and audible so he would not surprise him as he padded down the hallway. Reaching the end, he stood there with no weapon in his hand. Steve's sensitive eyes easily made out the outline of the figure standing in front of the open window in his living room. And he knew he could see just as well in the dark of the apartment.

The silence was heavy on them, but it was not a true silence; soft buzzing voices came from the TV in the bedroom, as well as that pale and eerie bluish light.

Steve was the first one to speak. "Buck," Was all he could manage, at a loss for words and unsure of what to do or say to fix this. Suddenly he was reminded of that little guy from Brooklyn, standing there lost and stammering in front of his friend. But this was different, Bucky was not going to laugh and pat him on the shoulder, he was not going to tell him it was alright. This was on him now, he had to fix it. But could it even be fixed? Could he come back from this? Steve shoved those thoughts back, of course he could come back, Bucky was a fighter, and the strongest man he had ever known.

"Bucky, I was-"  
"Stop calling me that." The Winter Soldier's voice was rough, and it broke, full of anger and full of fear. And it was the fear in his voice that hurt Steve the most. He knew that he could help him, he would help him. He was not all gone. He was still in there, terrified and lost. He could help him.

"Alright, then what should I call you?" Steve got no answer, and after a few moments, he decided to press again, trying to get a handle on how far he could push before he snapped. "What do you want me to call you Buck?"

Steve could hear his breathing, it was ragged and uneven and heavy. He knew _this_ was the line he did not want to cross, _this_ was the snapping point. Any further and things would likely escalate to violence, something that could be deadly for them both. Slowly Steve moved over into the kitchen, keeping the island counter between them. He flipped on the lights over the counter, which caused those familiar blue eyes to narrow some as they adjusted. Now Steve really got to look at him. He was wearing a blue sweat shirt and a baseball cap, black jeans and a pair of dark boots. His hands were at his side, gloves on both of them, and he looked like hell. There were dark circles under his eyes showing he had not been sleeping and his face could badly use a shave. His hair was long and tangled, though he had it tucked back behind his ears for now and away from his face.

Letting the other man calm down for a moment, Steve tried again with something different. He wanted to keep Bucky here, keep him safe and calm. He wanted to help his friend, his best friend, and maybe this was his chance. "Are you thirsty? Do you want some water?"

The change of topic didn't work. His eyes narrowed at the target across the room. "Why do I know you? How do I know you?" His voice was softer now in volume, but shaking still with the tension he felt.

"You're my friend Buck, always have been."  
"Stop calling me that!" This time he shouted it, his voice on the edge of some sort of burning growl; the look in his eyes was just as wild, and feral, and angry, and terrified.

But Steve didn't flinch at the raise of his voice. "Alright then, tell me, what should I call you?" He asked again. 

* * *

_'Bucky, my name is Bucky.'_

The Winter Solider was quiet, his eyes searching the blonde man's face for some sort of answer, some sort of validation- that he did in fact have a name. That these shards of glass would not cut him forever.

_'I knew him.'_  
'He's my mission.'  
_'But I knew him.'_

The fear was winning over the anger now, and it was clear in his eyes as well as his stance. And there was the target right in front of him. He couldn't finish his mission, he couldn't do it. Those glass shards of his memories were tearing him to pieces from the inside out. Flensing away at layer after layer of his programing, and filling all that was left with piles and piles of jumbled, broken, bloody shards. How was he expected to do this; how was he going to piece it all together?

The Winter Soldier grew quiet, his breathing slowing, and evening out. His blue eyes framed in such dark lashes rolled back into his skull and he fell to the floor with a heavy thud, his head cracking against the hard wood floor.

_'I knew him.'_

* * *

The sound was sick, and it turned Steve's stomach to hear it. He rushed to him, rushed to his friend, his best friend, and rolled him onto his back. Shaking him a little, but he got no response. "Bucky?" He waited for a minute, patting the side of his rough and dirty face. "Buck come on, you're going to be alright." He said, more to calm himself than to soothe the unconscious man as he moved his hand down and patted his chest, still getting no response.

Steve got up from where he was kneeling at his side, hurrying down the hall to get his phone, ripping it from his charger and scrambling to dial the only person he could think to call. She answered on the first ring, though she sounded as if she had been asleep.

"Cap'?"  
"Natasha. He's here."

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

"I'm on my way. Don't let-"  
"He needs help, he's not stable. I can't take him to the hospital." Steve interrupted.

"I've got a secure location, we can take him there."  
"Where?"  
"I'll send you the address, but wait until I get there. Just keep him there Cap'."

Before he could say anything else, the line went dead. 

* * *

_**A/N - Alright so first fanfiction. Actually like a complete first timer in the whole fanfiction community. Please leave me some reviews, I'd love to get opinions and different takes on the story. Questions and comments and all that. Love it? Hate it? Also another little note um, this story's format looks best at 1/2 width and was written in the font Times New Roman. So, if you wanna give it a look that way, or not, up to you. Anyways, thanks all!**_


	2. Broken Pieces

_**You know me.**_  
_**Chapter Two, Broken Pieces**_

* * *

There was nothing in him as he was pushed to sit back in his chair.

No fear.  
No anger.  
No thought.  
Nothing.

His handlers, a team of four men, had him surrounded; two carrying guns, the other two wearing white lab coats over dark suits as if they were some sort of doctors. He knew very well what was coming; he was familiar with this room, with these men. His blue eyes framed in dark lashes stared blankly forward as the armor was stripped from him, all except the mask over his face. That stayed, that always stayed. It was his muzzle, making sure he did not lash out against them like the attack dog they had forced him to become.

The room was dull and smelled damp and sickly. The two men with guns stood back several feet from him giving the lab rat technicians room to work as they brought out a tray of instruments and tools. But it was more than that; he could see how much they feared him. He could see the tightening of their grip on their weapons.

A fifth man, flanked by several others filtered in, they too were wearing dark suits, but no lab coats. He recognized him, this fifth man, though he did not look at him as he approached, he didn't move at all. The chair he sat in clamped down around both his forearms with a loud echoing clang of metal against metal. One of his handlers, one of the ones in a white lab coat came closer now, approaching his left side and sitting down on a rolling stool. With a small fine tipped instrument, this man opened up the panel on his upper arm, exposing the damaged insides of his cybernetic arm. He did not understand the inner workings of his arm, and he never asked questions about how or why.

Asking questions.  
Having thoughts.  
Those were not his right.

It would only get him punished. It would earn him another round of programming and a few years being frozen in the cryogenic chamber.

His handler worked on his arm for some time, replacing burnt out wires and changing a few cracked gears. Welding and patching panels that had cracked and replacing some entirely if they were too damaged to be repaired. Another of his handlers, the second man in the white lab coat came to join the first. This one opened the panel on his forearm, starting work there with a small soldering tool. Meanwhile the fifth man, the man he recognized, observed and quietly talked amongst his peers. But he remained silent, and still, his jaw clenched tight in pain and his breath was ragged; those were the only signs he was even aware of what was happening around him. The arm may have been cybernetic, made of nothing but metal parts, but it operated through many hundreds of connections to his nerve endings, some going directly into his spine. These repairs were agonizing. Every tiny touch of that blue lighted tool to one of the wires in his arm sent a screaming jolt of burning pain through his whole body.

And he was silent.  
And he was still through all of it.

The man he recognized, the fifth man, finally pulled away from the others he had entered with, and moved to stand in his line of sight. Though he did not look him, his blue eyes stared right through him and his dark suit; cold as winter and as unfeeling as ice. The fifth man ducked his head down, catching his eyes by force, but even still he gave no hint that he acknowledged him.

"Mission report." The fifth man demanded of him.

It was a command.  
And he ignored it.

He kept his jaw clenched tight under his muzzle, fighting back the pain the surged in him. The only movement or noise was the sound of his heavy breath as his chest rose and fell unevenly. He was in no mood to talk now; not with the constant torture of the work to his arm demanding his full focus.

"Mission report." This time the fifth man spoke with a raised voice.

It was a command.  
And he ignored it.

There was a hard blow delivered to him that forced his head to the side. The fifth man's gaudy garnet and gold ring had left a thing trail of blood across his upper cheek just below his eye. Slowly he turned his head back straight, the thin line of blood growing a little heavier and dripped down a half inch or so to be stopped at the top of the mask on his face. His handlers had stopped their work, uneasy and worried under the anger of the fifth man. All eyes turned to him now.

And he was silent.  
And he was still.

Now the fifth man was furious, and he turned around to face his peers, his arms waving in the air as he shouted in Russian, "This is what you give me? This is the best you can do? This is not a legend, this is a fucking dog!" The fifth man only paused to take in a breath before he continued to shout; an ugly red vein pulsing across his forehead as he turned away from his peers to his two handlers in white lab coats. "It is broken! I want it fixed now, I want my report! And I will not have any more of my time wasted here until you can get it right!" He yelled, his face turning even redder. No one knew what to say or what to do and so the men in white lab coats hurriedly went back to their work. And the others' silence only seemed to infuriate the fifth man more.

The fifth man moved back to face him, standing again in his line of sight, leaning down to meet his eyes once more. Though again he did not focus on him; he did not acknowledge he was even there.

"Mission report, you fucking piece of shit, now!"  
Again, he got nothing.  
And he was silent.  
And he was still.

Reaching up the fifth man forcefully ripped the muzzle from his face, the nylon bands that held it closed around the back of his neck snapping and making his head jerk forward with the force. This was when he snapped, he could take no more. The sound that came from him was a mixture- somewhere between a terrible cry of pain and the feral growl of a cornered beast. "No!" He pulled his steel arm free of its binding, snapping the iron cuff that held it as if it weren't even there. He lashed out swinging his arm at his handlers in the lab coats that were so close beside him. With that one punishing swing he sent the two men flying several feet across the room; their bodies hitting the hard cement flooring with a heavy thud. His movements were quick, faster than any other man's reflexes, as he grabbed the other cuff on the chair with his cybernetic hand and peeled it back like tin foil.

"I said no!" He yelled with his voice rough and broken.  
Afraid and angry all at once.

He lunged out of his chair and swung his closed fist at the fifth man, aiming for his temple, and meaning fully to kill him with a blow to the head. There was no doubt he could do it, with ease. They had all just seen a minor display of his in strength bending steel like child's play. But one of his handlers, one in a white lab coat who still lay on the ground where he had thrown him in his rage, uttered _the word_. A nasty thing they had done to him; to make sure they always had a kill switch incase their weapon went haywire. He slumped to the ground mid-swing, his body trembling. The fifth man stumbled backwards until he was pressed to the wall, very aware how close he'd come to his death. Two of his handlers, the ones without lab coats, lifted him and put him back into his chair.

"No." He said again, his voice quiet and weak now, slurring, and trembling as he repeated it again. He was conscious, but paralyzed. The word stopped the use of his body, cut off his muscles from responding to his own commands. He was helpless, and he struggled to even speak. Still he fought the paralysis, fought their control, evidence of his resistance came through as his muscles tensed seemingly at random. "No." he said again in his wounded voice, quickly losing the fight.

His handlers pulled on thick black rubber gloves before they approached him again. Standing at his side, each one grasped him, holding his arms down to the chair as it leaned back. The word would keep him weakened for some time yet, and they would be able to keep him pinned down. His blue eyes stayed trained on something in the distance up above him now as a black mouth piece connected to a long wire was held in front of his mouth. His breathing picked up, bracing for what was to come next. But he opened his mouth willingly and bit down on the black tray, surrendering the fight. A large set of clamps closed and locked around his head and across his face, pressing sharp metal points against his skin.

Then the current came. How much he did not know. But it seared into his head and he involuntarily screamed in pain from around the black mouth piece. This he could not be silent through. His body tensing hard, every muscle in him going rigid as he struggled for air, his handlers kept him down as best they could. The shock did not come in pulses, no, it was a steady current that he had to endure for what felt like ages.

It stripped everything away from him.  
His will, his thoughts, his hope, his humanity.  
All there was left for him was that searing, terrible pain, and his handlers holding him down.

When it was over he was moved from his chair, forced to stand on weak and useless legs. His body hurt, everything hurt. And the pain in his head made everything glaze over. But he made no sign now that he was in pain. There was no sign that he was even still human as his handlers walked him out of the room that held his chair, holding him securely by his arms. He knew where he was going, but he felt nothing about going there. There was nothing in him as he was laid back into the thick metal chamber. There was nothing in him as the door was shut, leaving his only view to the outside through the small glass port in the front.

He felt the cold creeping over him, freezing first his skin, then his muscles.  
It was so cold and so silent in there, so incredibly cold, and so silent, and so still.  
The only sound was his breath and his heartbeat, which would both soon stop after the freezing began.

And he felt it, as his heart slowed to a halt. He felt it still. He had managed to stay halfway conscious for some time, always fighting the cold and the silence. He didn't want to go to sleep; and this was the only sleep he was ever allowed. They worried about letting him dream, what it would do to their programming. He felt the ice filling him, working its way from the outside in. He felt his blood freeze in his veins and the terrible stinging chill of the cold all around him before he lost consciousness at last. 

* * *

This was day twenty one.  
And it had been very different from day twenty, and day nineteen before that.  
Natasha had kept her word, she was here now, she'd helped to get him moved to a more secure location.  
Both for the safety of everyone around, and for his own- no doubt Hydra agents were still hunting him.

He was with him now, he was here.  
Steve had finally found him, or, maybe it was the other way around.  
But there was still so much work to be done.  
Bucky was not well, he was not himself.  
And while the others had doubts, Steve knew his friend was still in there.

They had brought him to a safe location, one very few people knew about. And he knew and trusted that every one of the people there were on the good team, on his side. This was where Nick Fury had been brought after the attempt on his life- after he tried to kill him. Of course that thought gave him pause, hell, he had tried to kill him too, but Steve pushed passed those thoughts. Those things had not been his choice; they had been his mission, forced on him when he had no way to speak out against it.

But could Cap' really make the same choice he had made on the helicarrier again if it came to it? When would the line be drawn that Bucky could not come back from this? He had a duty to uphold; he was Captain America. And he had dropped his shield that day, surrendering his job for his friend. Steve prayed it had been the right call.

Things had grown quiet again, thankfully, and Steve was leaning with his back to the heavy iron door that sealed Bucky alone in the room. He had been kept under sedation by the good doctor, an IV in his right hand rehydrating him, providing some much needed glucose as well. His friend had been in truly terrible shape. Even super soldiers had to eat and drink at some point.

But even under this sedation things were not at all peaceful for him. Steve hated to hear the broken and wild screams of pain and torture that came from him. He didn't deserve that, he had never deserved that- to have to suffer so much. And even though Steve had pleaded many times with the doctor to help him, there was nothing that could be done to stop this. So Steve just had to stand there, weighted with guilt and hurt for his friend, for Buck, as his body was wracked with tremors and bolts of remembered agony. Whatever dreams he had certainly were not pleasant.

But things had gotten quiet again. And that was a relief for Steve. Pushing off of the door where he leaned he turned around and opened it, leaving it open behind him as he stepped into the well-lit and poorly decorated chamber. This place had been too dark, the floors and walls and ceiling all solid concrete. No windows, no nothing. And Steve had insisted they not leave it like that; they couldn't leave it looking like some sort of torture cell. It would only make things worse when he woke up.

So a floor lamp had been added, and a small desk borrowed from another room, on which sat a cup full of pens and a coffee mug. Somewhere someone had found a rug, a gaudy round oval thing that was a mix of untasteful blues and yellows. Natasha had found an end table, and was even kind enough to bring in flowers. Though Steve had a feeling it was more as a gesture of kindness for him, to placate him, and to show him she cared about what he was going through; rather than for Bucky to have when he woke up. They hung a few posters on the walls, held up with clear tape, it was better than nothing. They were mindless, meaningless posters, inspirational crap you usually found in office building bathrooms. But Steve needed to see those things on the wall, he needed to make this better for Bucky, but more than that he simply could not bear to keep his best friend locked away in a dungeon cell- he was not his prisoner.

The doctor had stopped sedation about an hour ago. And while usually the drug would last for another six to eight on a normal person, whatever the reproduced serum had done to Bucky had sped his metabolism up tenfold. And he was already beginning to stir.

Steve stood close at his bedside, looking down at his friend as his chest rose and fell evenly in his sleep. He reached out, putting his hand on the side of his face and brushing his thumb over the line of his cheek bone; his other hand was clenched in a tight fist at his side. "This is my fault Buck, I let you fall." Steve said quietly. Then he jumped, pulling his hand away from the other male's face quickly as he heard a female clear her throat behind him.

It was Natasha, leaning in the doorway, her arms folded over her chest. She gave Steve a well knowing look, but she was generous enough not to make a comment on what she saw. Of course she had her suspicions; she was a very intelligent person, and never missed any clues, but now was not the time to pick at Steve. And she understood that.

"Do you want me to close the door?" She asked him.  
To which Steve shook his head. "No, I don't want him to think he's a prisoner."  
"But he is."  
"No he's not. He's here so he can be helped, not interrogated."  
"I know Cap', I know." She said now just to placate him.

She did not believe he could come back from this. She knew what sort of monster he was, what beast the Soviets had kept muzzled and chained for so long. He had been her instructor once before; the man who taught her everything she knew years ago in the Red Room. She had never known Bucky Barnes, but she knew all too well the Winter Soldier. And she knew what they had done to him- what he had endured without a single wince of pain was inhuman. But it was too early to tell just yet who it was laying in that hospital bed wearing a navy blue sweatshirt and a pair of black jeans.

Her money was on Winter.

The silence between Natasha and Steve was heavy, and tense. And she graciously took her cue to leave. "I'll be right outside if you need me."

Steve didn't answer her this time; he just looked back down at him.  
He was waiting to see those blue eyes open again, framed by such dark, full lashes.  
He was hoping for some sign of recognition in those blue eyes this time.  
He was hoping for some hint of truth that it was still him, still Bucky.

But his eyes stayed closed for a while longer, the only movement in him was the slow and even rise and fall of his chest. Steve watched him, lost deep in his thoughts with both arms folded over his broad chest. The steady sound of his breathing was calming in a way; it felt good to be back in his presence, his company. The world now was so different, so foreign, and so overwhelming at times; and he had thought everything he knew and loved to be gone.

But of course, even when he had nothing, he had Bucky.  
And there was no way Steve was going to let him fall again.

Even lost in thought this way Steve's sharp eyes caught the catch in his breath.  
The slow and steady pattern had halted for a second, before resuming.  
He was awake.

"Bucky?" The name hung on Steve's lips with so much hope and heart ache as his bright baby blue eyes searching his friend's face for any sign he had heard him. 

* * *

_'I'm with you pal, I'm here.'  
'I'm here Steve, I'm right here.'_

He was laying on something soft, angled so he was sitting up a little.  
He wasn't cold, not like he usually was when he woke up from the cryogenic chamber.  
He could feel someone standing over him, and his voice gave away who.

The target was here, right beside him. But where was he?  
Why wasn't he trembling violently with cold as they unfroze him?  
Where were his handlers?

"It's just us Buck, and I'm not here to hurt you." He could hear the targets voice again.

_'Yeah, like you could ever hurt me punk.'  
'Didn't I tell you not to do anything stupid?'_

"Come on Buck, open your eyes." The target said again, his voice sounded like he was pleading.

It was a command.  
And he obeyed it.

His eyes blinked a few times adjusting to the light in the room. He saw the target there at his three, but his eyes brushed passed him, taking in the room around him, the stupid posters taped haphazardly to the wall and the flowers on the end table, the hideous rug and the miss-matched furniture. None of it was familiar; the only thing he could recognize was the target.

_'Wow, you suck at this.'  
'I'm not letting you pick out my ties anymore.'_  
'Shut up, just, shut up.'  
_'No, I don't belong to you.'  
'I don't belong to you.'_

He vaguely realized that the target was still standing over him, speaking to him. But he couldn't process what he was hearing, the words falling from his lips too quickly for his shattered mind right now. So he blocked them out, he shut himself down, his eyes dazed and lacking the same sharp focus they usually held.

_'You talk too much Steve.'  
'Anybody ever tell you that?'_  
'Why do I know him?'  
_'I've known him my whole life.'  
'He's my friend.'_  
'No.'  
_'But I knew him.'_

There was one word the target kept saying that cut him to the core each time. A word he could not block out or ignore. That word itself was a large shard of glass, and the target wielded it ruthlessly. It tore him open, left him bloody and vulnerable and exposed for all the world to see. "Bucky." He kept calling him.

_'I'm here, I'm right here.'_  
'That's not my name.'  
_'Bucky, my name is Bucky.'  
'I'm here.'_

He could feel a heavy hand on his shoulder, rubbing him firmly, shaking his upper body. The target's voice was worried now, and he just kept saying it. Why did he keep saying it? Why was he calling him that? He could feel the anger rise in him, all his hurt and his confusion and his pain grew into the only thing he was familiar with, rage. His body trembled, and his breath came to him now in short heavy marks. His eyes coming into focus on the target's face as he stood there looking down at him. The target pulled his hand away and he was right to do so. But this gesture was far too late to calm him.

"Buck, are you with me?" he said it again.  
"I said stop calling me that!" Bucky shouted, sitting up and swinging at him with his left arm all in one fluid motion. His voice filled with hurt and anguish as he lashed out at the only one he could.

The target stepped back to avoid that swing, fast reflexes saved him, but the Winter Soldier was not finished with him yet. Moving to follow his mission as he moved away he felt the tug of something on his hand. It stopped him, and made him look down. He saw the plastic tubing taped to his skin, and with little concern he ripped it off of him and threw it away. Not giving it a second thought. His eyes turned back to the target now, who was still standing there, just out of his reach with his hands raised and open in surrender.

"I'm not going to fight you. You're my friend Buck."  
"That's not my name." He said in a low voice, a broken voice. He got up off the hospital bed a little uncoordinated, but he managed to stay on his feet. Advancing on the target who moved back in turn. Step after step until he could not go any further, with his back to the wall.

"Then tell me, what should I call you?"

It was a command.  
And he ignored it.

He closed the gap between them, his metal arm coming up and grasping the target by the throat. Clenching his grip tight around it, tight enough it would bruise even the super soldier's flesh. He held him there, his eyes cold and dark as he listened to the target gasp for breath. His hands coming up to grasp the cold metal of his wrist.

"Bucky, please. Are you with me?" The target choked out as his face flushed red.

_'I'm here Steve, I'm right here.'  
_

Suddenly the glass shards were raining on him again. He couldn't do this, he couldn't hurt Steve. It was his job to protect him; it had always been his job to protect him. Steve was small, and oh god how the bigger guys liked to beat him up. And those cold Brooklyn winters when Steve would get so sick; so sick it scared him to his very core that he would lose him. It was his job to protect him. It had always been his job to protect him. His grip on Steve's throat relaxed and he let his arm fall to his side. Taking a step back from him; he needed his space to breathe, to cope. Everything felt like it was spinning as a few of those sharp and bloody shards of glass clicked together, their edges meeting flush in his head and forming a smooth flat piece with Steve at its center.

"To the end of the line. Right?" Bucky's voice was still quiet, and he was full of the fear that coursed through him. He searched the blonde man's face seeking some sort validation from him. Was this right? Were these things in his head something he remembered?

Steve caught his breath as best he could. But hearing those words come from Bucky's lips, took it all away from him again. _He was here_. Steve looked past Buck to see Natasha in the doorway, slowly lowering her gun. He nodded to her with a slow and stupid smile growing on his lips, and she slowly made her exit, silent as she came in, and Bucky was left totally unaware. Steve put his hand on Bucky's shoulder, slowly walking him back to sit on the edge of the hospital bed. He looked like he would fall down any minute.

"Yeah, that's right. You're right." Steve confirmed, keeping his hands on his shoulders for a few moments.

Bucky sat still on the edge of the bed, his arms hanging in his lap. He was quiet for some time, lost in his mind and working frantically to sort through this mess of sharp broken glass. He'd not known the pieces could fit together, and now it was all he wanted to do- put them together. Still they cut him as they fell and tore apart his hands as he dug through them. But he had one piece now, one piece that was large enough he would not lose it in the mess, a piece he could hold onto. And he clung to it, desperately, not caring how it's still sharp edges cut his flesh and drew lines of fresh red blood. Slowly he lifted his head to look at Steve. He looked lost, and he looked like he was in a great deal of pain, but he had _remembered._ This was Bucky, and he could be saved. Steve knew that now.

Steve couldn't keep the slow and easy smile off his face, as his eyes met with his friend's again. God he had forgotten how much he missed those deep blue eyes framed in such dark lashes.

"You were smaller." He said, but his tone made it into a question.  
"I know, you're right." Steve confirmed for him again.  
"We were in Brooklyn."  
"Yeah we were."  
"I used to protect you."  
"That's right, you did, you always did." Steve said quietly; remembering that even after the serum Bucky had saved his ass many times on the war front. And just twenty one days ago, he'd pulled his body from the Potomac river and saved him from drowning. Bucky had always protected him.

Now another silence passed between them, Steve didn't push him. His friend needed time, and he was willing to give him that. Bucky cast his eyes down at his hands.

"You were always too stupid to back down from a fight."  
Steve snorted a small laugh, "Well I knew you always had my back."  
"You had asthma."  
"Yes I did."  
"You were so sick that Christmas, I took care of you."  
"Brought my present up to my bed and everything, you spent all night making me terrible chicken soup and watery cocoa." Again Steve had a small hint of a laugh in his voice. The sheer happiness and content coursing through him now was overwhelming. _He was here.  
_  
And there was even a weak and hesitant smile on Bucky's handsome mouth. Turning his eyes back up to Steve again, the smile didn't fade.  
"It wasn't that bad."  
"It was terrible Buck."  
"I know." 

* * *

_**A/N- Well uh this chapter has been re-uploaded to make some revisions. I did the same for the first chapter since my roommate agreed to be my Beta. Nothing major just, I felt like things needed to be a little smoother, and there were a few grammatical mistakes. Anyway, um yeah. Thank you so much for all reviews! You guys are the best really. Third chapter should be up very, very soon. Thanks again for reading!**_


	3. Good Days

_**You know me.**_  
_**Chapter Three, Good Days**_

* * *

There were good days and there were _bad days._  
Some days Bucky just could not bring himself to speak, or to move.  
And there were far too many nights when Bucky just could not bear to close his eyes and let himself fall asleep. He was too afraid of feeling that icy chill creeping in around him; folding him into its sickly embrace. He was too afraid to feel his heart stop in his chest and his blood freeze in his veins; too afraid all of this had just been some sort of morbid hallucination- a taste of freedom only to have his world come crashing down around him again in a million pieces of glass.

Some days Bucky just could not cope with the change.  
And those days were the ones Steve hated most.

To be there _with him_, standing so close to his friend after he had come back from the dead, and yet for Bucky to be so totally unreachable, so lost, and so shattered made Steve feel ill. It made him sick, made his head dizzy and his stomach churn with nausea. It stung him right down to his core to see Buck this way. But he knew not to push him on those bad days. Those days where he would shut the world out and cave in on himself Steve would sit with him, if only so that Bucky was not alone through this. Steve would try to occupy himself with a book, a paper, his sketch pad, anything. But the silence and the stillness from Bucky was just so terrifying, and it made him realize how entirely powerless he was to help him. Eventually Natasha would come and pull Steve away, making sure he did not run himself into the ground with his constant worrying.

Even super soldiers had to eat right?

Bucky was remembering things during those bad days; Steve knew that's what it was. When Buck would sit on his bed, legs crossed, and his unfocused deep blue eyes would stare out into the empty room, his body wracking with small tremors every now and again. Those were the days where Bucky was buried in those terrible glass shards, digging through them frantically with bare hands trying to piece them together. And slowly, slowly but surely, he was managing to fit their razor sharp edges back together.

How much longer? Steve kept questioning, over and over in his head. How much longer until Bucky remembered all those nights together back in Brooklyn; or the many nights spent huddled in a small tent on the battle front in some god forsaken war zone. When would Bucky remember _them_ and how they used to be? And the thought that always followed: what if he doesn't want that anymore? What if he doesn't feel that way anymore, what if he can't come back from this?

The good days were easier; Bucky would talk with him for hours on end about what he could remember. About the war they'd fought, about how small and feeble Steve had once been, about how stubborn Steve always had been, and about how Buck had always been there to protect him, to save him, when he was in over his head. And it was a joy for Steve to see him light up when he told him that, yes, all the things he thought he knew were true. That was all Buck needed, a little affirmation. Someone to tell him that he had in fact been a human at one point, that he was not all gone and that he was more than just the fist of HYDRA, used to change history when the world did not follow along as planned.

Steve hoped that this would be a good day when he arrived at the underground bunker. It had been over three weeks since he had brought Buck here with Natasha's help. And while the bad days did outnumber the good it seemed as if the tide was turning. Yesterday had been a good day, as well as the day before, and the day before that.

It was early in the morning, pre-dawn. Steve had skipped his run with Sam this morning. His anxieties about seeing Buck again were far too strong for him to put off. Hell, he had hardly slept that night. He opened the heavy iron-barred gate and locked it back behind himself securely. Greeting the few armed men he passed in the tunnel on his way in. This was all that was left of SHIELD, a handful of loyal agents and a small team of guards. The former global agency reduced to a few working computers and monitors hidden away in an underground bunk somewhere just outside of D.C. It hurt in a way, to know this was all that remained, but Steve couldn't worry about that now. His focus was on Buck, loyal to his friend until the end of the line.

Bucky's door was open; the wide steel frame had not been closed in over a week. Steve did not want him to feel like a prisoner, and Bucky had not made any attempt to leave. For Bucky this was a safe place, he needed time to cope with all the things running through his head. And he did not trust himself to move outside the room, he was afraid of leaving the safety he'd found here. Steve knew eventually they would have to bring Bucky out into the sunlight again, but for now, if this was what he wanted, then Steve would not object. He could give him time, hell, it was all he really could give him.

Natasha was there, sitting at the desk eating a bowl of cold cereal, her legs folded in the old seat. She looked up at Steve and gave him a knowing smile. She was a frequent visitor now, and while she claimed it was only to keep him company in his absence Steve knew she was here to interrogate him. Though it never seemed to phase Buck much; he was mimicking her posture almost to the letter, his legs crossed as he sat on his bed, facing her, but not looking at her. His eyes cast down on the bowl of cereal he held in his hands. Inhaling it as quickly as he could, as if he was worried someone would take it from him.

Steve smiled a little and crossed the room to stand by Natasha, shoving both his hands into his pockets as he looked over at Bucky. "I see I missed breakfast."

"Guess you got a late start huh?" It was Nat who answered him.  
"Yeah, guess I did. How is he?"  
"Quiet, he didn't sleep last night." She answered matter-of-factly.

Steve frowned, he never liked hearing that. "Has he said anything to you?"  
"Nope, not since you left yesterday, I'm telling you Cap' you've got the magic touch."  
"I just wish there was more I could do."  
"I know Cap', I know."

The sound of Steve's voice seemed to pull Bucky out of his private world. He looked up at him, cold deep blue eyes studying him cautiously. At first there was no recognition there, only the hard gaze of the Winter Soldier, but the hardness faded away quickly and a half smile tugged at his lips. _Steve_.

Steve smiled right back at him, visibly relaxing. Natasha didn't miss the look of hope and affection in Steve's eyes as he looked at the broken man across from them. And she could read the comfort in Bucky's eyes from just having Steve there with him. But could you really blame him? For Buck, Steve was the center of it all, of all those thousands of glass shards. He built his world from the edges of the one piece he had to cling too- a tiny man in Brooklyn, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a very hard head. _Steve._

"Hey Buck."  
"Hey." Bucky answered him, his voice a little on the rough side.  
"You feelin' alright?"  
"Yeah, I'm alright. You worry too much."

Steve relaxed a bit more, the tension in the air evaporating as he was reassured his friend was alright; though he looked like he hadn't slept in a week. Natasha looked between the two of them and gracefully got up from her seat. Every move she made was purposeful, and skilled. Steve looked at her, raising an eyebrow. She smirked at him, heading for the door with her empty bowl. "I'll be around." She answered Steve's silent question.

With the seat at the desk now vacant Steve sat down, folding his hands in his lap as he looked at Bucky. He took a few more bites of the cereal in his bowl, something he found he loved quite a bit. It was sweet, and the milk was wonderful and creamy. Those were things he did not get before, ever. And it was nice to eat something simply because it was good, rather than being fed formulated meals of protein and carbohydrates and vitamin supplements to keep him fit and healthy.

"I was thinking," Steve broke the silence, "Maybe you'd like to come outside for a bit today. Take a walk, I am sure it must get pretty cramped in here."

"It's a lot roomier than a cryo chamber." Bucky responded curtly, not liking being pushed to go out. Those words cut Steve to the core, and took every sign of happiness from his eyes. Something Bucky instantly regretted. He found he hated it when Steve was upset. It was a remembered feeling, from long before the Winter Soldier. Bucky was quiet for a moment, thinking over a memory he had pieced back together last night. "Won't anyone see me outside?"

Steve seemed to brighten again, that Buck was considering his offer. "No, I promise, just us."

"Alright." He answered then. Trusting Steve not to set him up in a trap, not to send him back to whatever remained of HYDRA. He trusted him not to sear away all those glass shards he waded through or shatter what few pieces he had put back together.

Bucky finished the rest of his bowl and set it aside on the miss-matched table and got up. Wearing a pair of Sam's sweat pants and one of Steve's hoodies, it was navy blue with a white star on the back. Bucky looked so human in those too big and borrowed clothes, so much more real than Steve had seen him look since before all of this, since before the Winter Soldier. Buck kept his left arm hidden away in the front pocket of the sweat shirt. Steve knew why, it was because Buck felt like it made him uncomfortable- it didn't of course, it didn't bother him at all, but one thing at a time right? So he didn't comment on it.

The sun had risen now, but the air was still chilled from the night before. The grass still clung to its dew as birds woke and began to sing the songs of the day. It was peaceful, and soft. The two men walked in quiet companionable silence for a long while, Steve looked around them at the golden morning light filtering down through the leaves of the forest trees on either side of the narrow footpath- Bucky kept his eyes on the ground.

They walked like that, slow, and easy, and quiet for a long time; close at each other's sides. Bucky was nervous, obviously so. He was terrified being out here, on the ground, unarmed. Someone could be watching, and he felt the imprinted need to watch his six welling up inside him. His mind struggled hard to fight back the fear of ambush, the need to take higher ground and take cover. He clung to that piece of glass with Steve at its center, with its sharp and broken edges cutting into his hands as he gripped it a little too tight. Steve wouldn't let him fall, he reminded himself. _Not again._

But there was a new delicate shard of glass he'd added to this piece he clutched so tight. It cut him so deep and was so heavy on his soul Bucky hadn't been sure he could really bear the weight of it alone. This one was different from all the rest, it was colored bright with feelings he couldn't yet recognize; things and thoughts he could not process just yet, even if he wanted too.

The images swirled in beautiful colors, and hazed fog through his broken memory.

Steve was so small, back then, a full hand shorter than Bucky, and only half his weight. But he was beautiful in his eyes, and Bucky ran his hands over his thin frame with reverence and a sort of holy devotion. His hands moved carefully with well-practiced motion, tracing up the curve of his neck to brush his fingertips gently along the sharp line of Steve's jaw. Steve's familiar, stunning, baby blue eyes met his own deeper, grey-blue ones as Buck brought his hands up to tangle in his mussed blonde hair, gripping tight. He loved the noises Steve made as their lips met, heated, and swollen, and breathless as they kissed for the hundredth time that night. Steve moved over him, his light weight pressing down over Bucky and pinning him to soft of the mattress they lay on.

He remembered Steve was always over him, never the other way around. He couldn't do that to him, he'd never even wanted to have it the other way around. It would make Steve feel weak and small, and Bucky had spent his entire life trying to convince him otherwise. That's why Bucky was always the one on his back, besides, he liked it this way; he liked having Steve on him, inside him, leading him through these heated nights. Bucky remembered the feelings from those nights, the pleasure, the need, the sheer scale of it all was almost over powering.

Then Steve collapsed over him when it was done, as he always did, tucking his head up under Bucky's chin and kissing the side of his throat. And Buck folded his strong and heavy arms around Steve's small frame holding him tight as he always would. Brushing his nose into his dampened and disheveled blonde hair as they each struggled to catch their breath. "I -" He'd gone over this a thousand times in his head, but he couldn't find the piece that fit here. "-you Buck…" Steve would say something in that husky beautiful voice between labored breaths, but he couldn't remember what. He couldn't find that last small piece to put it together, though he'd spent the night trying fiercely with bloodied hands.

Steve was the one brave enough to break the silence between them. And the sudden snap from his own private world out into reality made Bucky shiver. "It's good to have you back Buck."

Bucky looked at him, pulling away from the memory, from his search through the thousands of glass shards. But his focus was not on idle chat. Not now, he had to know. "I remembered something, I think."

Steve looked at him as they walked. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, we were, together…" Bucky didn't know how to say it, how to voice the images in his head. And he was embarrassed, what if it was not real? What if it was just something he imagined? _But it felt so real._

"We've been together our whole lives Buck." Steve affirmed simply.  
"No, I know but, we were together. You were smaller, and I had my arms around you, both of them."

Steve's heart jumped to his throat as Bucky continued. "We kissed, again and again and you, we, were together. Then you were laying on me, with your face hidden against my neck, and I was so warm. And I remember your hair was damp, and a mess, and it tickled my nose but I didn't want to make you move." He got quiet for a short moment, "We were together, right?"

It was clear to see the nervousness in Bucky as Steve looked at him. Only once he finished speaking did he turn his deep blue eyes up at the now tall and muscular man he'd known his entire life. So different than the night he'd been running through over and over in his head. Steve didn't know what to say- Bucky had remembered. He'd really remembered. Steve was quiet now as both of them stopped their steps, standing there alone on the foot path in the middle of the woods.

"That's right, we were. We were together." Steve answered him, suddenly feeling a steep fear rising in him.  
"More than once?"  
"Yeah."

Bucky could see the emotion in Steve's familiar eyes. He was hurting, and Buck wasn't sure why. But for Steve this was all still so fresh. He'd never lost his feelings for him, sure, he'd put it aside when the world needed Captain America, but Steve never stopped caring, never stopped loving him. And the thought that Bucky didn't remember, or worse, did remember and just didn't feel it anymore- it hurt. It made his chest burn and Steve struggled to stay strong and composed for Buck.

Now it was Bucky's turn to speak, breaking that tense quiet that Steve held. "I still feel it."

Steve felt like the world came crashing down around him. The strong bravery and poise of Captain America cracked, and suddenly he was no bigger and no stronger than he had been in Brooklyn. And there was Bucky, the man who had always, _always_ been there for him, even when he had nothing else.

"I still feel it too Buck."  
"Why didn't you just say?"  
"I wasn't sure if you remembered. I-"  
"You're all that I remember. Everything, you're the center of it all."

Steve, his composure cracked as it was, opened his arms and folded them around Bucky's shoulders tightly. He lowered his head to Buck's shoulder; hiding his face against the side of his neck like he had done so many times before, only now, it was a little harder to reach, and Steve could feel the chill and unforgiving hardness of metal under the sweatshirt.

Every muscle in Bucky's body was rigid, the Winter Soldier did not like being held. It was binding, it was too close, and it made him vulnerable. But feeling Steve's warmth pressed against his front, those heavy arms around his body, that familiar scent he would recognize anywhere, brought on a thousand more shards of glass that quickly sheared away the last of that terrible machine he'd been trapped in for far too long.

Slowly Bucky brought his right arm up and wrapped it around him to return the embrace, letting his palm rest flat against Steve's back. His hand slowly closed, grabbing tight to the jacket he wore. The embrace lingered there for a long time, both men needing time to cope, time to heal this freshly opened wound. A hundred feelings coursed through Buck, but he did not try to identify them; instead he simply let them wash over him in waves, one after the other.

"God Buck, it's so good to have you back." Steve said softly, his face still hidden against Bucky's skin. And Buck made no move to try and pull away. He held tight to Steve not saying a word, clinging to the one thing he knew, the one stable thing he could use to get his footing in all of this.

This was a good day.  
And the days that followed were good too.  
Not perfect, but good.

Bucky pieced together more and more with each passing day. And while it was still a struggle for James Barnes to cope with the things the Winter Soldier had done Steve was always there for him; assuring him over and over that he was a good man, that those crimes had not been on his hands but on the people who had held him, that he could move forward, that he could come back from this.

The routine of these days that passed didn't change, Bucky wouldn't let it. He needed the pattern and the familiar surroundings of the underground bunker; he needed the stability for the time being. Steve offered again and again, to have him come and stay with him and Sam had been more than welcoming too. But Bucky wasn't ready, not yet. But Steve hoped he would be ready soon, and until then, he would give him time.

Neither man talked about what had happened during their first walk together, it was enough for Bucky to just to know that this strange feeling of attachment was returned. And Steve knew Buck was still struggling so much to keep his head above water that he shouldn't push things. It was enough for Steve to know that love was still there. But somehow Natasha knew. She gave Steve a knowing smile when he arrived each morning to see him, and Steve would always look away, embarrassed. Bucky always remained rather stoic and indifferent, but it didn't mean he wasn't aware of their silent conversations.

Sometimes Sam would join them on their early morning walks, and sometimes Nat would jog past them, making some snide remark that would spur Sam into running after her along the foot path. Bucky never missed the subtexts between those to either. Sam was obviously sweet on Natasha, and, as much as she tried to play it off, he could see her eyes change when she smiled back at Sam.

Slowly it moved from walks to jogs in the early dawn light. Steve letting Buck set the pace, a slow one, an easy one that Sam could pace with. Something the man took great comical pride in. And Bucky smiled at these jokes, this banter among the three of them. Though he was largely a quiet observer, he felt like a part of the group. He was slowly coming out of his shell, opening up to more than just Steve as the days rolled by. He had found a friend in Sam- who was entirely loyal and accepting, and Buck had a quiet trust in Natasha as well, though the two didn't seem to speak much, the few words they did exchange in hushed Russian told volumes on both sides.

These were good days.  
Everyone knew now; that he could come back from this.

_And then came the bad days._

* * *

**_A/N - So yeah, thanks to everyone who left me reviews! I appreciate them all, really I do. So yeah, thanks so much for reading, hope you still like this story, let me know and such. Um, got a few ideas for the next chapter already so, yay! On a side note, I am in the market for a Beta reader... Anyone willing to Beta for my story please please reach out to me. Thanks!_**


End file.
